


Summer Son

by deathmarkedlove_archivist



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 11:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmarkedlove_archivist/pseuds/deathmarkedlove_archivist
Summary: After deciding that he is no good to the Slayer the way he is, Spike takes a trip into the wild unknown...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Archivist’s note: Note from Hils, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Death-Marked Love](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Death-Marked_Love). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Death-Marked Love collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/deathmarkedlove/profile).

Not for the first time, Spike wondered what the hell he was doing in this godforsaken city. Lorne had given him a name and pretty much that was it, but the big green queen had been certain that this Mister Mfozo could get the chip out of his head - and would ask no questions.

Spike wasn't sure what he would do once the chip was out, but he knew that he needed some kind of resolution to that part of his unlife before anything else happened. He couldn't be with Buffy, or apart from her for that matter, until he had proved, one way or the other, that he could behave independently of the Initiative's little techno-leash.

Lorne was a demon so one would wonder about his motives in sending Spike to the most ambiguous place he'd ever seen, but Lorne seemed to be one of those demons who was cast in more than just black and white - somewhat like Spike himself was. The host had seen something in his reading of the Vampire with a heart, if not soul, and had ventured to help him - even going as far as finding a box to ship him off to the southern most part of Africa in. At this point, Spike wondered if Lorne had just made a tactical move in getting rid of him.

But then there was the name on the tattered business card that Lorne had shoved in his coat pocket before he had nailed the lid on his transport container.

Mr Mfozo in simple black letters on the one side, and on the other, the silhouette of a stylised dragon.

The plane ride had been rather unforgettable, what with the stewardesses not even bothering to bring him a whiskey, and his box had been unceremoniously dumped in a warehouse at the local international airport. Apparently, the words 'urgent' had no meaning to the airport staff and Spike was forced to punch his own way out of the box before his patience ran out. Who was he kidding, his patience had run out even before he left LA.

The warehouse had been dead. It seemed nobody worked at night, here either. Spike wondered if African vamps managed to make a good living if the prey refused to skulk around alone in the dark hours. Come to think of it, he'd never met another of the nosferatu from this part of the world.

With a nose that lead straight to groups of people, Spike was able to find his way out of the deserted warehouse and back up to the airport terminal itself, which was still, surprisingly, a hum of activity. He managed to wind his way around the hordes waiting for incoming and outgoing flights like so much lovely cattle until he saw what looked like a taxi rank. Catching a cab wasn't usually his style, so he skipped over the wall to where rows and rows of cars were parked, waiting for him to pick one.

Spike grinned and rubbed his hands. He was brimming with unused tension and his body was screaming for action - any kind of action. He couldn't bite the people, but he could steal a car. And he was going to have to get used to driving on the left side of the road again.

The one that caught his eye was a sleek little number all in black with shiny alloy wheels. And it was a convertible. Oh yes, he could see himself cruising the African highways under the cool southern stars with the top down on that fine testament to human ingenuity.

He cautiously looked around to see that there was nobody lurking and made his move. A long, thin wire revealed itself from the shadows of his coat and he casually leaned against the car door while he slipped the wire between the window and the door frame. With a quick jerk, he unlocked the door and then opened it.

Wailing sirens screeched through the air making him cover his ears in shock. Bloody hell! The car had an alarm and he'd just set it off.

Panicked, Spike jumped into the car and stuck his hand under the steering column. He ripped out a bunch of wires, and mercifully the blaring noise subsided. He wiped his hand across his brow and then looked up to see some passers-by staring at him. He was done for now, he reckoned, they'd notify the authorities and he'd have to find another car. It was bloody irritating.

He started to get out the car, but the luggage bedecked people simply shrugged and moved on.

Strange, he thought. But he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he ducked down to see what a mess he'd made of the car's ignition system and possibly fix it. These new fangled cars were a lot more painful to get going than his De Soto - old faithful, but eventually he sorted out what went where and soon the engine was revving.

Spike chuckled and dropped his hand down to shift the car into first, ready to get the hell out the car park, when he discovered that the gear stick wouldn't budge. "What the...?"

There was a damn gear lock on the car - as if the alarm hadn't been enough. Fortunately he was a vamp and, just a bit frustrated now, he ripped the entire lock out of its seat, almost taking the gear stick with it. He wound down the window and threw the entire thing out then rammed into first and skidded towards the exit.

There was a boom gate blocking his way out that required some sort of card to open it, but as Spike wasn't concerned about paying for parking, he drove at speed through the boom, wincing at the dents the new car was already picking up. Before long, it would be just like his old one, and that wasn't a bad thing.

He found his way out to the motorway and dug in his coat for the map he'd lifted from one of the airport's brightly lit stores. You could always count on the inner city of any big place to be where the action was, so with one hand on the wheel and half an eye on the road, Spike navigated a path from the airport to the city that was Johannesburg.


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours later he was stranded on a dirty corner in a buzzing part of the city and his car had been stolen.

Spike couldn't believe it. Somebody had ripped off his brand new wheels and there was nothing he could do about it. If he ever needed the sodding chip out it was now and those bastards in ski masks with big guns would get it bad and terminal. He'd actually been sitting at a red light when three of them had come at him from nowhere, waving weapons. Of course, he hadn't locked the doors, so he'd been inelegantly hauled out of the seat, with the muzzle of an AK-47 shoved in his chest lest he think about protesting. It wasn't the gun that had stopped him from kicking ass, it was the chip - because his hijackers were human. The only thing that prevented them from taking the clothes off his back was that he'd given them serious fangs. They had screamed away in the car, rubber still burning on the tar, while Spike was left to dust himself off and use the more colourful phrases in his vocabulary.

It was beneath him, but he had been forced to walk into the busy night district where he'd had to use his game face more than once to ward off would be muggers. He'd also used the demon face to scare the overly eager tarts that hung around the hydrogen street lamps - not that a bit of comfort wouldn't have been nice, but Spike was here on business after all, and he didn't suppose the lasses would appreciate his lack of currency.

He was beginning to think the hell mouth had temporarily relocated except for one thing - there was not a demon in sight although there were plenty of people - of all colours and creeds. Even the evil beasties knew when a place was worse than bad and he began to suspect that this city was worse than the big bad. It was a disturbing thought - could there be a place that even Spike was weary of? And Lorne had sent him straight there.

The thought of making his way back to the airport and shipping his box back the hell out of here was looking more tempting by the minute when a white mini van with tinted windows screeched to a halt next to him.

Spike rolled his eyes. He could only guess at what crime syndicate would burst out the van's sliding doors and he prepared to bring his demon visage to the fore.

The driver's window rolled down and a dark, lean face wearing dark glasses and gold earrings leaned out.

"Hey white brother, you're looking lost - downtown or uptown?"

"Excuse me?" Spike was taken aback that the man had bothered to talk to him at all.

"You look like you need a ride, man. Anybody who's standing still on a street corner in Hillbrow is looking for a ride - of one kind or other - if you get my drift." The dark man flashed a white smile at him.

"Why would you give me a ride?" Spike was cautious, but the fellow behind the shades seemed to be harmless.

"It's my job," he said as he pointed to the black letters on the side of the van; 'Jake Ntombi, taxi service'. "That's me, Jake, and this is my service, bro." He slapped the empty seat next to him. "So get in and I'll take you where you want to go - for a price, of course."

Spike nodded, "of course. Call me Spike." Perhaps this young man could help him, but Spike would not be paying fare. "Actually, I'm looking for someone specific, maybe you've heard of him." He fished out the card and showed Jake the name that was printed on it.

Jake's eyebrows shot up over his sunglasses and he whistled. "Eish! You're after real muti, man. Can't help you. You'd better forget it, okay?" He started to roll up the window, but Spike moved fast and forced it back down again.

"You know the name. You have to help me," Spike growled and there was a measure of desperation in his voice.

"I am helping you, bro - just stay away from that. It's nothing a white foreigner should ever be involved in. And where did you get that card in the first place?"

"A friend gave it to me," Spike said, and hoped it was the truth.

Jake shook his head. "Some friend."

Spike's hand shot out and grabbed the black man by the throat. He winced as the chip fired, but didn't let go. "Take me to this Mister Mfozo, mate, or you'll get more than you bargained for."

Shifting in his seat, Jake tried to stay cool. He was obviously not too shocked that Spike would try to attack him, but seemed more disconcerted that the man who had him by the throat had unusually cold fingers. "Is this what a brother gets for trying to help out his comrades? I'm telling you, I can't help you. Sure, I've heard of the name - who hasn't in this city? Doesn't mean I know where he is, man."

"Okay," Spike hissed, "then you're going to help me find someone who does. Got it?"

Jake nodded, "I got it. But maybe you don't." He produced a handgun and held it to Spike's head.

The vampire just laughed. "Yeah, like a big hole in my head's gonna help. Somehow I don't think you're the killing kind, boy."

"And you are?" Jake snorted.

Shrugging, Spike removed his hands away from Jake's neck. "Truce?" He asked.

"Ja, all right." Jake lowered the weapon. "It's not loaded, you know."

"I could have told you that, boy," Spike grinned. "I've been around a lot longer than you would think."

Jake's mouth stretched into a toothy smile in return. "No jokes, you've got some serious shit hovering around you."

"Trouble is, I didn't think there was anything that could surprise me, anymore," Spike said. He looked around at the dilapidated neon lit buildings and the cars and people that were flowing past them, unconcerned about their violent confrontation. "It's nice to know that I'm wrong."

Nodding wisely, Jake said, "You're new in town, you get used to it."

"I need a guide," Spike said, "and I need help to find this Mfozo guru, or whatever he is. And I'll pay you - even if I have to steal the cash."

"Sangoma," Jake said, "He's a sangoma. It means Witch Doctor. And you better get in, I don't like hanging around here with a white man for protection."

Spike raised an eyebrow. His new acquaintance had already forgotten the tension between them at the mention of money. Since the chip, Spike had always needed allies among humans, and although it had galled him at first, he now found it a comfort. Perhaps this Jake could be an ally in his quest. He moved around to the passenger side of the van and pulled open the door. As he hopped into the free seat, he said, "What time does the sun rise around here?"


	3. Chapter 3

For a room to hole up in while the hot African sun ruled over the day, Spike could say he'd seen worse. Not that much worse, mind, but he supposed it was better than a sewer pipe or a dung heap. It was little more than a shack with corrugated iron for a roof and an assortment of bricks, tin and cardboard to make up the walls. Jake had dropped him off at the hovel in the early hours of the morning, just before dawn while Spike was left to gawk at the poverty of the place that surrounded it.

"This is the filthy heart of Soweto," Jake said at Spike's shocked look at the shantytown.

"You live here?" Spike asked quietly.

"Nah!" Jake said vehemently. "I've got digs on the other side in Diepkloof. But here's where I stash the stuff that I don't want others digging around for, you know what I mean."

"And your neighbours are not too keen to take an interest in anything you might 'stash' here?"

Jake laughed. "This place might look like a dump, but it's also a community. I know the people here and they know me, and they respect my privacy. It's all about respect in Soweto. You won't be bothered as long as you stay inside the hut. People don't want a white man and a stranger walking around here."

"I don't think there'll be any problems on that score." Spike wasn't about to take a midday stroll, even if the neighbourhood wasn't so bad.

"Good," Jake nodded. "Now I've got things that need attention. Important shit, you know, but I'll be back to fetch you in the evening, then we can start checking for stuff on the Sangoma. Meanwhile, you'd better figure out how you're going to pay me."

"Of course," Spike said with a twist to his lips, but he had a feeling that Jake was not in this for the money. He'd have time to figure out the implications of that during the long day ahead. As Jake climbed back into his taxi van, Spike added, "Don't come back 'till after sunset."

The single roomed hut was comfortable enough on the inside with a mattress on the ground for a bed and several colourful blankets that made him wonder if it was used for more than just sleep. There were some cardboard boxes stacked in the corner with a miscellaneous assortment of clothes, both male and female, piling out of them. There was also a small paraffin stove with a bashed kettle containing water on top. Rummaging around next to the stove produced a tin of instant coffee, sugar and powdered milk as well as a dented iron mug.

Spike sighed. He was starting to feel the first twitches of hunger. He hadn't had any blood in more than a day and he wasn't sure where his next meal would come from. It was going to be interesting to break this fetish of his to his easy going guide.

Instead of thinking about it, Spike lit the paraffin in the stove with his lighter and left the water in the kettle to boil. Perhaps drinking coffee would be a substitute for what his body really needed. Then, of course, there were other things his body needed as much as the fresh blood - and he'd been abstaining from that for more than just a day, it felt like a lifetime.

He needed Buffy.

Suddenly morose, Spike realised just how much he missed her now that she was so far away from him - literally on the other side of the world. It wasn't just the sex - it had never been just about the sex to him at all, but he missed the feel of her, the rasp of her skin against his as he made love to her. The small sounds of surrender that she would make in the moment of climax were like ambrosia to him - filling his senses until he wanted to flow. Bloody hell, he needed her so badly.

But she didn't need him. He had only been trying to help, wanted her to see that she was real, a tangible human girl and one that he was in love with, but instead he'd ended up hurting her. She had told him before that she didn't want him, but he'd seen through the lie and penetrated the veil. Her no could always mean yes a thousand times over. But, this time she was serious. This time he had gone too far. She really didn't want him, anymore. There was no room for him in her life - not even that dirty little place he'd occupied for such a brief time. It was why he had left.

She couldn't have him the way he was, couldn't love him, but maybe she would reconsider if he was whole once more - or he would forget about her and even that would be fine because he couldn't continue to live between worlds. He had to know whose Spike he really was - Buffy's or the demon inside him, or even just his own. He had to find the witch doctor.

But for now, he could do nothing except wait for darkness.

***

Jake returned after sunset and found the English man paler than usual.

Spike was sitting with his still booted feet up on the bed, half a mug of cold coffee in his hand and a fag hanging from his mouth with indifference. He looked up as Jake removed the corrugated iron that stood in place of a door and scowled.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," Jake said with an impudent grin and removed his sunglasses. Spike was beginning to wonder if they were more permanent than a fashion accessory.

"It's about bloody time," Spike grimaced. The day had been less than pleasant in the shack which had turned into an oven with the midday sun overhead. He longed for the coolness of his crypt, but didn't think cemeteries were popular around here. They probably burned their dead to keep the corpses from rotting in the gutters. His mood had definitely soured over the day and now he was feeling downright foul.

Jake spotted Spike's ill-tempered demeanour and shook his head. "Aikona," he said, "can't have the white man all bevoked when we're going to get some family planning!"

"Could you speak bloody English, you pillock?" Spike knew that being testy wasn't going to make Jake anymore of a friend of his, but truth be told, right now he didn't want a friend, he wanted a meal.

The other man's eyes went wide in mock astonishment. "You should talk, bro. I have to listen extra hard to understand what you're tuning me and it hurts my ears. Now what I'm saying is we're just going to hit the shebeens for beer and info. You do drink beer don't you?"

Spike recanted his irritation and squinted at Jake. "Beer's always good, mate, but there's something I need before we do anything."

"What's it, bro?"

"Blood."

For a second, Jake stared at his guest, then he broke into a loud abandoned laugh. "There's always blood to be had in Gauteng, my friend. I'm sure we'll both find some by the end of the night, if that's what makes you happy."

Shaking his head, Spike leaned the short distance over to where Jake was standing and grabbed his arm. "I'm serious. Any kind of blood you can find, cow, pig - damn I even thought I heard some sodding goats earlier. As long as it's fresh and relatively warm, I don't care. Human's always the best, but I don't drink from the local population anymore."

Feeling Spike's painfully cold hands dig into his skin, Jake's face took on a grey cast. "What are you telling me, bro?" He breathed and Spike could hear his heart pounding into his ribs.

"Unless you haven't figured it out, I'm a vampire. Nosferatu. Blood sucking demon. Whatever you want to call it is fine by me, but if I don't eat soon, I might go a little bonkers and be less picky about where I get my next meal from. Get it?" To prove his point, Spike shifted into game face.

"Tokoloshe!" Jake said in a strangled whisper.

"Geshuntheid." Spike's human face returned and he grinned up at Jake.

The other man didn't take the smile as reassurance and was starting to shake. "Look, man, I... I'll do whatever you want. Just don't curse me, okay? You want virgins? I know virgins, I'll get you lots of beautiful wide-hipped virgins."

"Bloody hell!" Spike's frustration was evident and he leaped up. "I'm not looking for a shag. I just want to find this Mfozo wanker so I can get a life and go home, already. I'm not going to eat you, or curse you - at least not effectively and I certainly won't go near your sisters. Can't hurt you anyway - got a chip. Look, I'll show you--" To prove his point, Spike lunged at Jake, who shrieked and would have fled out the shack if the Vampire had not been blocking his path.

As Jake waited with hands covering his eyes for the demon's attack, Spike fell back with loud groan and a palm pressed to his temple.

"Sod it all! I'd forgotten how bloody painful that is."

Jake cautiously looked between his fingers and found that the vampire was on the floor, his face a mask of agony. Tentatively, he dropped his hands from their defensive position and stepped forward. "What happened?"

"I told you, can't hurt humans - at least not physically," Spike said in with a self-mocking grimace. "I got institutionalised. Made me all 'Clockwork Orange' they did."

Jake nodded slowly, beginning to understand. "Cool."

Glaring, Spike said, "It's not bloody cool, mate! Means I can't hunt, can't fight, can't eat. Takes away my whole sodding raison d'être. I'm a vampire, for god's sake."

"No, I mean cool about the vampire part," Jake said, although his voice was a bit shaky. Now that he realised Spike couldn't hurt him, though, he seemed to be all up for it. "So you're like Mister Dracula? A Count or something?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me that wanker's been here. He owes me money."

"Aren't you supposed to have a cape or something? And black hair?"

"What? No! Look, I'll give you the full course notes on Vampires 101 later, but all you need to know is that, a) Vampires are nothing like you've ever seen on the telly, except for the drinking blood part and b) Don't believe everything you read in an Anne Rice novel."

Jake's features sidled into confusion. "Who's this Anne Rice chick?"

Spike smiled glowingly at Jake. "You know what? I think you'll do after all. Now do you think you've gotten over the shock that I'm dead? 'Cause I'd really like to find a butcher. Or a hospital."

Nodding, Jake said, "Hospital?"

"You know, for the blood."

"Right."

Spike had a feeling that Jake was going to be walking around with that dazed look in his eyes for a while.


	4. Chapter 4

They had actually bought Spike's carton of blood from wizened crone who lived in a neat, orange painted house. He'd watched them slaughter the goat in the backyard and then drain the animal into a bucket. Spike wasn't sure how hygienic the process was, but drinking the still warm elixir more than made up for it. He could still feel the heartbeat as the black liquid slipped home down his throat. It was almost as good as--

Jake was staring at him, wide-eyed.

"What?" Spike wiped his stained lips with the back of his hand.

"Do you have to do that in front of me? I'm not squeamish, bro - seen all kinds of not nice stuff if you know what I mean, but that's just..." Jake shuddered.

"Deal with it," Spike muttered. He lifted the carton back to his lips like it contained the drinking yoghurt it advertised. "Who was that woman, anyway? She looked older than I am."

Jake turned his face away from the eating vamp and stared out the side window. They were sitting in the front of his taxi which was parked outside the house they'd just visited for blood. "Mrs Zandile's a local Sangoma. She reads bones and entrails and does a few fertility rites for the women in the area, not that they need it."

"Sangoma? What, like Mfozo? We've got to go back in there!" Spike was already half way out the taxi when Jake's hand dragged him back in.

"Keep cool, man, I already spoke to her. She gave me an address - we're going to check it out when you're done."

"Yeah, but if she's a witch doctor person, then maybe she can help me and I don't have to look for this other one."

Jake chuckled. "I don't know if you get it. There's sangomas and then there's Mister Mfozo. I'm not into all this superstitious ancestor shit - at least I wasn't until a few hours ago - but Mfozo's the real thing. Mrs Zandile? She just likes to scare the crap out of the people around her who are stupid enough to take it in and that's where her power is, not in bones or medicine."

"I guess it wasn't going to be that simple," Spike ground his teeth. He was battling patience already and he had only been in the country for a day. "So what do you know about Mfozo. Is he dangerous?"

"You hear stories, you know. Like how he miraculously healed a kid dying of Aids. Or how he can make the rain come in the drought. But then people speak about him in whispers, as if they think he can hear them and when a daughter is raped and her baby dies in the womb or when your brother dies from an infection from a dirty needle - they whisper a little more loudly than they should."

Spike threw the empty carton out the open window and turned to Jake with a frown. "Not sure I get it. Do you think he'll help me?"

"Don't know, bro, don't know," Jake said as he started the engine and accelerated the van forward. "Guess it depends on what help you want. He has power, no mistake there, but he also has his own agenda and I really couldn't say what that is."

"Guess we'll have to find out," Spike said. He wasn't too concerned. Lorne had promised the traditional healer could help him and, god help him, he trusted Lorne.

"What do you want him for, anyway?" Jake asked nonchalantly, but Spike wasn't fooled. His compatriot had been itching to find out his motives.

"Let's just say that it has to do with a lady," Spike said, deliberately obscure.

Laughing, Jake replied, "Doesn't it always, bro!" He didn't push for more.

***

After a quick stop at Jake's small but considerably more liveable house in Diepkloof, a place that looked like any suburb Spike had ever seen - albeit with smaller houses and a lot more people hanging around the streets, they had taken to the road as Jake followed the lead Mrs Zandile had given them.

Spike had been amused to meet Jake's mother and sister while his new ally changed his clothes for something a more formal. Mrs Ntombi took one look at the pasty-faced stranger in black leather and scowled.

"Jake!" She shrieked in true fishwife style. "Boy, what are you getting yourself into? Is this skelm selling you dagga?" Realising that Spike was listening to her she switched into another language and prattled on at her son through the door with clicks and gesticulations.

That was when Jake's sister, a tall, brown-skinned goddess who couldn't have been much older than Dawn with her hair in dozens of tiny braids and her dark eyes swimming with innocent sexuality. "Hi, my name's Lindiwe," she breathed at him, not knowing how her accent made the words a downright invitation.

Spike coughed and wondered if he could take up Jake's offer of virgins after all. "Call me Spike." Lindiwe's eyes went wide and she giggled and Spike new exactly what she was thinking. He smirked a little and sidled up to the girl. "So, what do you do for fun around here?"

"Oh, not much. You're from England, hey? I can tell from the accent."

"Originally, yes. But I've been living in California for a while."

The girl almost shrieked in pleasure. "Ooh! West side! God, I'd love to go there. Even England. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"It's a business trip," Spike said as he fished for a fag and his lighter making himself look ultra cool.

"Wow! And you know my brother. That is such a coincidence."

Spike decided that teenaged girls were not much different, no matter where they lived. "You know, I have a, er, friend in California who's about your age. You'd like her, I think." The fond smile in thinking about the Niblet was reflex.

"Oh," Lindiwe sounded disappointed. "I understand."

"No! No, it's not what you think. She's like a baby sister to me," he tried to explain himself.

The look on Lindiwe's face turned cold. "I see."

Spike just shook his head, "I don't think you do, sweet thing."

Jake, in his new, sleek attire, managed to break into the doomed conversation with a frown at his sister. "Leave this one alone, Lindy, he's trouble."

"Damn right," Spike agreed.

Jake grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door. "Let's go."

Once more in the van and going considerably faster than the speed limit out of Soweto and onto the city highway, Spike asked, "Where are we going, anyway?"

"It's a shop in Melville, a white yuppie suburb, but a lot of arty types hang out there. Got a pumping night life too, but you have to like that type of thing."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, too white for you? Is everything about skin colour in this country."

Chuckling, Jake said, "You got it wrong, bro. It's not about colour, those are just labels. It's about culture. Your culture, my culture, their culture. It's all different. It's about what you grew up with, what they indoctrinated you into. It's not that I don't like the white cultures, bro, but I'm more comfortable with what I'm used to, if you get my drift."

"I don't have culture. I'm a vampire, remember."

Jake snorted. "Something I won't forget. And you checking out my sister does not make me a happy man."


	5. Chapter 5

The change in scenery after only a half an hour drive was remarkable. The narrow streets that Jake manoeuvred the taxi through were surrounded by upmarket houses, pretty street cafés and restaurants and fashion trendy youngsters looking for a good time. Lights were bright and the atmosphere, though completely different from the township, was buzzing. Jake crawled through the crowded streets looking for place to park the van. When he eventually found one, they got out and Jake conferred with a street urchin who was lurking in the shadows. Spike realised that poverty and class demarcations ran even into this rich suburb.

A few notes passed from the Jake's hands to the boy and they were on their way.

Jake took them to a bar that was oozing with people. The whole place was decorated in a Jamaican style with brightly painted walls and the front was open to the street, but there was still a queue of people stretching out past the door.

"Don't think they have space in there for two more bodies, mate," Spike commented as Jake led them past the scowling queue to the door.

"We've got to look up someone called Hermanus Oosterhuisen. He's a poet and he hangs out here a lot. Has his own special table and all," Jake called back to Spike through the loud hum of would be patrons outside the bar's main entrance.

Spike shook his head, "A poet? Why the bleeding hell are we consulting a nancy boy poet?"

"Because he knows things. Has his finger on the pulse of the city. He's an urban guru and a lot of people come to consult him from all over the place. Mrs Zandile was right, if anyone would know where Mfozo was, then it's the poet."

Jake shoved through a group of giggling girls dressed up with barely covered skin in the hazy warmth of the summer's night. He didn't hear Spike mutter behind him, "I hate bloody poets."

As Spike strode after his compatriot, one of the girls reached out and grabbed his arm. "Hey, are you from Europe? You're so pale!"

The vampire turned and eyed the girl who was sporting a delicious brown tan and a nose ring. He felt Jake's hand on his arm pulling him away from her suggestive leer. Jake said, "Do you want to chat the sweet ladies up or do you want to find Mfozo?"

Spike turned to give the girl a wink, but then he grinned at Jake. "Lead on, mate. I'm not looking for more trouble than I'm already in."

Jake managed to get them past the large beefy bloke acting as bouncer by slipping the man a bottle of something he'd been hiding in his Jacket. They pressed into the thronging heat inside and wound around towards the bar. The decor inside matched the outside theme and there were grass reed mats and brass tribal masks decorating the interior in a jumbled fashion. People were crowded around tables and in the isles drinking local beers and shouting loudly in carefree conversation as waitresses dodged the clientele and carried trays of colourful food.

After a quick word with the barman, Jake yelled across to Spike who had managed to swipe himself a portion of deep fried potato skins and guacamole, "He's outside, follow me."

They ducked around more people and then forced through a narrow passage towards the back door of the bar which Spike realised lead to a garden of sorts. The outside was just as crowded as inside, but it was open to the air and the stars and Spike could see why the place was so popular. For all the mass of humanity, people were lounging around on large wicker chairs and wooden steps as if tomorrow was another day and the night would last forever.

He could smell the heavy sweet taste of marijuana in the air, but it wasn't cloying and it seemed that most of the patrons were just high on life and didn't need any narcotic to get them there. The atmosphere was decadent but also refreshing.

Jake grinned and said, "Yeah, for a white hang out, this place is quite chill."

Spike looked around at the various people and saw that they were a mix of colours and ethnicities. "I don't get your distinction."

The other man gave him a penetrating look and then said, "No, you won't, bro - and that's not such a bad thing." He turned and indicated to table in the corner of the garden that was hidden from view by thin partitions woven out of grass. There were several other such booths at the back of the garden as well - all made for privacy. "Are you ready?"

"Do you want me to go first?" Spike countered with a smirk.

"Actually, I'm not going at all - I need a beer." Jake said blandly and then turned to go back to the bar.

With eyes wide open, Spike shouted at Jake's rapidly retreating form, "You can't leave me here! I don't even remember what the bloke's name is!" Jake was out of earshot, though and Spike had to resign himself to speaking to the urban guru ponce alone. "Bollocks," he muttered to himself and climbed over a snogging couple to get to the booth in the far corner.

He slowed down as he neared the entrance to the booth, then stopped outside, hesitating. Bloody hell, he was actually nervous. Since when had the Big Bad been nervous about dealing with a human? But he could feel a knot of anxiety pressed against his ribcage like a cold fist.

Spike was never one to analyse his emotions too deeply - he simply acted on what he felt and let the consequences unravel themselves out later. It was something that got him into trouble more often than not, but had also rescued him from a great deal as well, so he'd never been particularly remorseful. Not that a vampire could be resourceful, what without certain soul-like remorse capabilities, Spike had to remind himself. But he wasn't so sure that was true. Oh, it had been drilled into him since he was turned - we're evil, we don't feel guilt or love or hatred, we just act on our impulses and live for the thrill of fear and death.

Then why did he love Buffy or even Dru, for that matter? Why did he despise Angelus with every ounce of undead unsoul he had and why did he want to kick himself to hell and back again for being unable to rescue Dawn when they were on top of the tower?

Lorne had inferred that Spike never really lost his soul at all, that there was something inside the vampire that made him feel all these anomalous things even before he'd got the chip, but Spike wasn't so sure about that, either. There were a lot of things he'd done as a demon, and not just in order to survive, or impress his family - but because he'd revelled in the bloodlust and the potent rush of power. And he didn't feel bad or wrong about it. If he had a conscience, then it was rather a selective one.

Why the thought of meeting a poet to find a witch doctor was disturbing, Spike couldn't say, except that his instincts told him to get the hell out of there and find a not so nice girl or perhaps a lively brawl.

Spike had overcome obeying his instincts a long time ago. Probably about the same time he discovered he really did love the Slayer. Truly loved her - not simply in a 'I wanna shag her senseless' way.

Putting his plate of potato skins aside, he stepped around the grass wall and into the booth.


	6. Chapter 6

The group of people clustered around the table that was littered with glasses and half eaten dishes didn't look up at Spike's silent intrusion into their heated conversation.

"Excuse me," a tall skinny girl wearing glasses was saying. "But you cannot justify the non-existence of God by saying that there are no such things as absolutes."

"What evidence do you have besides what is interpreted by your brain? Everything is subjective to that - you could be living in a vacuum and perceive it to be Eden and who is to tell you otherwise. Nothing is certain," interjected a short dark man with dreadlocks.

A young, pale man stuttered, "We can rely on empirical evidence. We know that gravity exists because whenever we drop something, it falls to the ground. In fact, we trust this evidence to work in the future. If I were to let loose this beer bottle, it wouldn't suddenly go leaping into the sky. All evidence points towards the existence of something other, something outside of ourselves. If everything was subjective, then we too would cease to exist - but we know intrinsically that that statement is false."

"So maybe there are absolutes." A grey-haired man with a moustache leaned forward as he spoke. "But that doesn't necessarily point towards the existence of a Creator. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one - why would we want to burden ourselves with some obscure force that keeps the universe in motion? Gravity does that just as well." The old man smirked.

Spike decided it was time to call attention to himself. "God exists, all right. And so does hell. Get over it."

Faces turned to stare at the brash newcomer. An man with leathery brown skin and coarse hair tied back in a ponytail, who had yet to be part of the conversation, looked at Spike with intense blue eyes. "What evidence do you have to support your claim?" he asked calmly.

With a sadistic grin and a yellow glint to his eyes, Spike said, "I'm a demon. If demons, like me, exist, ergo so does hell, ergo so does the other place, and God is part of the whole glorious package. QED. And I'm not being bloody metaphorical either, mate."

A few of the others shifted uneasily and the girl with glasses looked as if she wanted to say something, but the brown man with blue eyes waved his hand at them to calm themselves. "Why don't you have a seat, friend, and you can tell us more about your experiences."

Spike shrugged and grabbed at a chair, which he turned around so that he could plop down on it and lean forward to rest his elbows on its back. "I'll tell you everything you wanna know - but you don't get something for nothing."

"Ah, a capitalist." The man's mouth twitched wryly at the corners. "Perhaps it is you who needs to tell and we are doing the favour by listening. At what price do our ears come?"

"Ah, a poet," Spike echoed the rough man's well spoken tone. He licked his teeth dangerously, then, looking over at the skinny girl, he said, "Telvak demons pay good money for ears - especially soft, pink ones. I could rip 'em off for you if you like?" The girl went scarlet.

More shifting went on by the group around the table but the urban poet remained unflustered. He stared the vampire down, however Spike didn't need to blink and eventually the man said, "what is it you want, Mister...?"

"Anderson?" Spike supplied on a whim with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Interesting. A man who lives in a construct. Is that what you are?"

"Don't think I follow you, mate."

One of the poet's adherents, the pale looking kid, piped up, "What? Haven't you seen The Matrix?"

Spike looked at the boy as if he was food. Bugger it, he was food. "Ah-- no. Forgot to set the VCR, didn't I?"

The kid slunk back in his seat and looked over to his teacher for encouragement. The poet never took his eyes off Spike.

Suddenly tired of the banter - it wasn't the same if it wasn't with Buffy - Spike pulled the card from his coat's breast pocket and slid it face down on the table towards the other man. For all that the din of the bar surrounded them, there was an acute patch of silence enclosing the table. The poet's eyes flickered to the image of a dragon embossed on the back of the card and then back up at Spike.

"I think I should converse with Mister Anderson in private. Why don't the rest of you find some other entertainment." His voice was soft and he didn't even direct it towards the others, but they knew his command and with remarkably little fuss, they left the sanctuary of the booth.

Spike leaned back and pulled a fag out. With one twitch of his lighter, it was dangling from his mouth while he breathed tobacco smoke out through his nostrils. Being undead and all, he didn't have to breathe. But he could. Sometimes it came far too easily to him.

Without touching the card, the blue-eyed poet said, "a dragon in the dessert - what does it mean?"

"Damned if I know," Spike muttered. "Damned if I don't, as well. Have you met my ex? We might be able to get one lucid conversation out of the two of you - your riddles would negate hers."

The poet chuckled. "A demon with a sense of humour. Now that's the definition of a riddle."

"I'm not bloody well laughing, am I?" Spike said and stumped his cigarette out on the table.

"What do you seek, demon?" The poet's question was chill with sobriety.

For a moment, Spike considered the question. In all fairness, it was a good one because he didn't know the answer. He thought he did, once. William sought love in its purest and most chaste form. He knew that being turned hadn't ended that, but it had altered it. Loving and hating were the same to Spike and he had still loved Cecily even as he had had his revenge. For a century he'd loved Dru and hated Angelus, but you could easily invert the sentence and it would make no difference. Why in god's name should it be any different with the Slayer?

He'd had enough of the poet - could never stand anyone who reminded him of his ensouled self and was about to brush off the question with a shrug and demand to know where the witch doctor was when something made him hesitate.

He couldn't say that his natures were warring - he never knew that he had more than one - but he recalled what had propelled him onto his current path: she had refused to have anything to do with him and as was their usual game, he had continued to push her. He'd had her up against a figurative wall when he finally realised what that strange look in her eyes was; she was as fragile as glass and he'd had his finger on the pressure point. Buffy was about to shatter and it was all because of him. He'd pushed so far that they were dangling on the edge and whereas he could recover - tenacity brought on by more than a hundred years of existence - if he had moved one more inch, she would have broken. And not in a good way.

He'd backed off, of course, but what he would never recover from again was the utter self-loathing that had silently stalked up behind him until it tackled him and brought him to his knees. Oh god! Even now he could feel it in the recesses of his gut.

He didn't know if it was some new torture emanating from the chip in his brain, but he couldn't stand to live with it. Couldn't stand to live with himself. But it was what had stopped him from killing her - or at least her spirit.

Spike couldn't hide the tremble in his hand as he looked up at the poet with ice blue eyes. If he knew his reflection, he would have realised that the other man's eyes were the same as his. "I don't know what I'm looking for," he said softly.

The poet nodded. "That's the best place to start." He stood up and picked up the card on the table, slipping it into the pocket of his faded jeans. "Let's go," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

"Hey, wait up," Spike called as he scrambled out of his seat to follow the poet. The other man had been swallowed up by the crowd outside the booth and Spike shoved his way through. He managed to spot the dark head of the poet bobbing up and down, ducking and weaving through rowdy clusters of half-drunk, half-high youths.

Spike caught up with the poet just as he was slipping out the garden through a back door that lead them abruptly into the street. Compared to the heady claustrophobia of the bar, the crisp air of the back street was refreshing and apart from one or two 'invisibles' lounging around the parked cars, the place was deserted.

The poet stood still and waited for the vampire to get his bearings. Spike was surprised to see that he had ended up back at the spot where Jake had parked his taxi, and he was even more surprised to see the young man leaning against its side. "What took you so long, bro," Jake called to him as he pocketed a cell phone.

"The vampire decided to participate in a metaphysical discussion. He talks too much," the poet said as he walked over to Jake.

"How did you know that I--" Spike broke off and cocked his head. "Something tells me that I've been had. What's going on here, Jake?" He growled.

"Don't take offence, my brother, I'm just doing what I have to do. You can think of yourself as down payment."

"For what?" Spike felt the anger at being lead on slice through him.

The poet answered him: "You're Jake's ticket to the witch doctor."

Barking out a harsh laugh, Spike let his expression show his incredulity. "Come on! Don't think I'm gonna play nice vamp with you and just tag a long so you can use me as witch doctor bait, do you? I may be chip!Spike but I bloody well ain't tame!Spike. What's going to stop me from walking the hell out of here?"

Jake coughed and then took his shades off. "Nothing, man."

"Excuse me?"

"Feel free to leave. Hey, I'll even give you a lift to wherever you want to go. Free of charge."

Spike sauntered closer. "What's the catch?"

"No catch, bro. You can leave if you want to. But, how else are you going to get to Mfozo? And let's face facts here - you weren't going to pay me anyway. If you let me use you as my ticket, then consider your debts cancelled."

Bugger. Spike realised the little twat was right. He let his itching anger dissipate and resigned himself to the deal. "So what's in this for you, you wanker?"

Jake looked him in the eye and for a moment, Spike thought he saw the effigy of the grim reaper. It must have been the shadows cast by the tree overhead from the moonlight, because a moment later, Jake shook his head and the premonition was gone. "It's private business, man," was all Jake said.

The poet shifted on his feet. "Let's go then. We're on a schedule."

Spike snorted. "Who died and made you boss?"

Jake glared at him. "He's the doorkeeper. He'll take us to the witch doctor."

"Hang on--" Spike stepped forward to get a closer look at the poet. He looked like your average human with his nut-brown skin and crinkly black and iron hair, but those eyes; blue on white that could stare holes into doors and burn the flesh on a vamp just by looking. He could almost envision the superman eye beams flashing out in indigo tones to make crosses on his skin. The bloke had wicked eyes. "You're a demon, aren't you?" Spike stated.

"Yes, from the Vengora Dimension," the poet said matter-of-factly. "But I make a living in Johannesburg - and the people here appreciate my art."

***

The windows of the van were tinted but they let in enough light to make Spike twitchy. They'd been travelling for several hours and now the sun was making its lazy way over the horizon. Spike managed to find a place on the floor in the back of the van, between two rows of seats, and he spread his duster out around him like a tent. He'd never been alarmed at the thought of daylight, always had a few tricks up his coat sleeve to get himself out of harms way, if necessary, but there was something about the intense bright spot he could see even through the dark windows.

The sun was smaller, yet somehow meaner than its northern hemisphere counterpart. If he raised his head slightly from his vantage point, Spike could just make out the pale blue, cloudless sky through the front windscreen. The landscape they were travelling through was just as barren as the empty sky - they'd left the noise and lights of the city behind a while ago - and with the few flat acacia trees dotting the terrain, Spike realised he would be toast in less time than it took to boil an egg out in that harsh sunlit paradise. It was a strange kind of beauty, though.

He was grateful for the cover of leather and steel.

Spike pretended to snooze while his travelling companions kept up a long debate in the front seat of the van. They had rubbed his nerves to bleeding point with their constant yammering at each other about every inconsequential topic they could come up with. They'd started out on politics and religion then got into sex and taxes. Currently it was whether Bafana Bafana would win the Africa Cup - and Spike would have joined in on the football talk, but he doubted they cared much for Man United.

Resigning himself to his situation - they'd probably have thrown him out into the heat of the day if he'd tried to shut them up - Spike thought about his double-crossing companions. Jake had known all along about what he was, he was certain of it. The boy was a good actor, whatever he was, and it irritated the vampire that he'd begun to trust another human being so easily. People were treacherous, even if they weren't evil, and some would stab you in the back between heartbeats. And they had no ethics when it came to the undead.

Not that vamps and demons were trustworthy, either, Spike thought, but then you knew where you stood with them and it was usually with your back to the wall and a machete in your hand. Humans on the other hand were... Ambiguous.

He thought about the Slayer. In the old days, she would have dusted him without breaking a nail and then gone on fix her make up. She never did get that close to him, though, because he was good - had to be good to survive those first few years in Darla's little incestuous family. He never came close to her, either, although he'd been obsessed with it. She was the thorn in his side. Spike smiled at the recollection of the fond memory. They'd danced so beautifully together.

Now, after all that had happened, Buffy trusted him with her life. The more amazing thing though was that Spike had come to trust her with his. He'd wondered when he'd let down his guard with the Slayer. Was it the first time he realised that he was in love with her? Was it that time after he'd taken a beating from that Glory bitch and she'd thanked him for not giving up the secret of the Key? He'd been pretty vulnerable then. She could have pushed a stake through his heart at that moment, he knew, and he wouldn't have minded because even if he had to die at her hands, he trusted her to do what was right.

Spike didn't give a toss about what was right - but he knew she did and that's why it was important.

He wondered if he would still feel the same way when the chip was out. If he got the chip out.

Apparently they were on their way to meet the witch doctor, but he didn't know why the sangoma wanted him. He hadn't questioned Jake or the poet, but he was pretty sure it would involve something nasty and generally dangerous or even sharp, wooden and pointy.

Occupational hazard, Spike thought. He didn't have a plan as yet, but he would wait, exercise his patience - remind himself that he could be patient - had been with Dru - and work out what to do once Mfozo was in the picture.


	8. Chapter 8

Jake opened the sliding door on the side of the van.

With a start, Spike woke up and then reflexively scooted backwards to avoid the stream of sunlight that shot through the interior of the van.

"Are you bloody mad? I'm flammable! Not much good if your entrance ticket goes up in smoke, is it?" He said with a growl, holding his leather coat out in front of him like a ward.

The black man was sweating in the midday heat and had lost some of his outward cool. "Here," Jake said abruptly as he tossed a plastic sports bottle over to Spike.

The vampire picked up the scent of half-congealed blood as he sniffed the cap. It wasn't human, but beggars can't be choosers, so he popped the lid and squirted the contents down his throat. He was bloody starving. He let his eyes glint a malevolent gold while Jake watched him drink. The other man should realise that he was here willingly, but also that he was not happy with the situation and would only go along with them on his own terms.

"Where are we?"

"Karoo," Jake supplied. "Nothing lives in this place. Until the rains come and then, yeah, then you should see it." He squinted under his sunglasses over the dreadfully barren landscape. Even the acacia trees had given up on this territory and all Spike could see from the view were scraggly bushes with the tenacity of a pit bull and the rocky, caramel soil. The land was unremittingly flat and the horizon so far away that the picture before him was divided into simple bands of ochre land and azure sky that sizzled where they met. But no clouds were in the air to bring the life giving rain.

"Where's the demon?"

"You mean the poet?"

"No," Spike said slowly, enunciating his words, "I mean the demon. You know what he is."

Jake sighed. "He's gone into the dessert. I think he's got to prepare something before we meet the witch doctor. We must wait here until he returns."

"You know what he is," Spike repeated from the inside of the van while Jake stared into the distant shimmering heat. "Don't think for one minute that he isn't completely self-serving in all this. You see, I know a thing or two about demons. They're not to be trusted."

"I trust no-one," Jake bit back. "Not even my boys who were the ones to find you. They told me there was a blood demon walking around alone, all unprotected and in need of assistance, down the streets of Hilbrow. They're good boys - they do good work for me - but I still don't trust them. There's not one man I know who would take a bullet for another. Not even his best friend. What makes you think I'd give a demon the greater privilege?"

"You're all street wise and savvy, my friend Jake, small time thief and gang leader, survivor in the city of hell. But we're not in the city now, are we? What can you do out here? What makes you think you can keep it all under control out here? Night falls and I'll be on my way. Can find this Mfozo wanker myself if I have to."

Jake laughed and there was a history of cynicism in the sound. "I'm telling you, you won't find the witch doctor without the poet. You don't get it - he's not real, not like you and me. You'd be wondering the land until the sun came up again to take you. We're about two hundred kilometres from any shelter. Think you can walk that fast? Nah, you're coming with me whether you like it or not."

Spike clenched his fist to keep his face from sliding into predator form. "What's stopping me from draining you dry and stealing the car keys? Your blood would be sweet after this shite!" He threw the bottle at the black man in anger.

"You have the chip. You can't do it because of the chip," Jake said as he stepped back from the shade of the van and out into the sunlight with apprehension.

"I do what a bloody well please, chip or no sodding chip! You think that's what's kept me from ripping a hole in your throat? I can live through the pain. Hell, I've lived through worse than a little physical bloody pain!" Spike choked on the last words and looked away.

Jake stared at the vampire. He wiped a hand over his sweating forehead then took in a deep breath. "Look," he said quietly, "you don't want my blood. It's... Bad."

Something about the tone in the boy's voice made Spike look up. He immediately gained control of his emotions - no use thinking about Buffy at a time like this - and asked, "what is it?"

"Aids, man," Jake stumbled over the admission. "I've got the white man's disease, except it's not the white man's disease, anymore. We've bought the plague fully and are paying the price."

Spike swallowed. He could tell if blood was HIV positive by sniffing it and he'd only drunk from an infected man once - just to see what it was like. It wouldn't hurt you, but it wouldn't nourish you either. The blood was dead and stale.

"I got it from my girlfriend," Jake continued to talk as if Spike was his confessor and he needed to say these things. "She died last year - they didn't even have a bed for her in the hospital, but she was so thin and emaciated in the end. She looked like a breathing corpse, her face a mask of death even before she passed away. In the end, the very end, I couldn't stand to see her. I wasn't with her when she died. She used to be so alive, that woman, full in my arms - her voice was like rich chocolate and her eyes were an anchor for me. She kept me away from trouble, my woman. But she's killing me, now. Don't you see? I can't die like that. I can't be forgotten and left to lie on some floor in my own stinking mess while my life is leeched away. I can't let my ma or my little Lindy see me like that. I've got to be man of the family. What would they do if I died? What would they do?"

Spike held his gaze with his steady blue eyes. "They'd go on, mate. They'd have to. Do you really think the witch doctor has a cure?"

Jake tore his eyes away from the vampire with the human face. "I honestly don't know. But I have to find out, don't I?"


	9. Chapter 9

The poet returned just as dusk was making the world a comfortable place for Spike again.

The other demon had let his human disguise slip a little. His grey on black hair, no longer lank and stringy, hung in uncanny writhing strands over his shoulders and his skin seemed bronze, not nut-brown, in the half light. What betrayed his inhumanity even more was the way his eyes were glowing, like burning holes of blue fire on white.

Spike looked up from where he was leaning against the side of the van, taking a long drag from his cigarette, to see the poet striding towards them from the distant slash of colours that composed the sunset. The air was so clear and bright and already the southern sky was starting to teem with stars in the encroaching darkness. He tossed the fag end away and then breathed in the air through his nose, just to smell the clean ozone it was laced with. It was almost as good as the iron tang of blood.

Under half-lidded eyes, he watched the poet draw near. Spike felt an uncanny sensation; he had cheated death for such a long time, maybe the devil was coming to take him at last. But no, the devil wasn't after him, at least not this time, but after the man who was slouched against the fake leather front seat of the taxi and staring across the dashboard at the nothingness ahead of him.

He had no pity for Jake. After all, the dying man was using him for his own ends without remorse. But he wasn't one to judge the man's motives either. Spike knew a little something about death and degradation. Some people did what they could to avoid it, others embraced it. He'd stumbled into that alley as William, a man for whom degradation was a way of life and had been embraced by death herself. He didn't know what Dru was offering at the time, but Spike never doubted that foreknowledge would not have changed anything. Perhaps William would have been horrified but he never would have chosen the Hero's route - the simple, clean death- over eternal damnation.

Not like Buffy.

In a world that was muddy with iniquity, where bad and good were so entwined it was difficult to tell them apart, motives were murky and selflessness gave way to selfishness, she was the one shining, glorious thing in his life. When she loved, it was pure, when she gave, it was without guile and her anger was always righteous.

What right had he, of all hell's creatures, to expect her to love him?

"She can never love you," the poet vocalised Spike's thoughts in front of him and he started.

"Bloody hell! Can't a bloke keep his thoughts to himself?"

"I can read it on your face, vampire. Truth hurts, doesn't it?"   
"Don't think I was ever under any illusions," Spike said bitterly and fished for another cigarette. He shoved the item in his mouth and lit it, then took a long, shuddering drag.

Jake had heard the interaction and was climbing out of the van. "Is that why you're here? Because some woman doesn't love you? That's just got to be the most pathetic thing I've ever heard," he snorted.

"Not some woman." Spike breathed smoke out through his nostrils and gazed towards the horizon. There was only a thin band of light left to remind them of the sun. "The Slayer. She who is chosen to kill my kind - there's a whole sodding speech about it but I was never 'au fait' with all the mythology. It's all so bloody ironic. Vampire in love with the Slayer. And yeah, it is pathetic. But that's not why I'm here." A few quick pulls at his smoke and he flicked the remains away, not bothering to put it out. He launched himself from the side of the van and started to walk in the direction the poet had come from, his coat flapping around his legs. "Let's get this show on the road, people."

***

They were taken some distance from where the taxi was parked along the deserted road and into what formed a slight depression in the seemingly flat landscape. Here the ground was cracked and more parched than its surrounds and in the centre of the natural circle was a rough pole with a human skull attached to it.

Under the pole a banked fire shed meagre light over the terrain and the poet drew them into its sphere. With dark all around them and the stars above bright enough to see by without the moon, Spike felt as if he was standing in their own private universe.

They stood in silence.

Jake fidgeted with a big signet ring on his finger, all the while trying not to look the vampire in the eye.

Sighing, Spike ran a hand through his hair and turned to the poet., "So what now? Where's this conniving bugger we're supposed to be having a chat with?"

The poet gestured at the pole. "Right there."

Jake's head shot up. "What the hell you saying, bro? You brought us here to meet the witch doctor!"

"I did," said the poet. "He's there. Or rather, he was there. Meet Mr Mfozo, my friends." He walked over and rapped on the skull with his knuckles.

Spike rolled his eyes. "I should have bloody known," he muttered to himself and swung around, ready to go back to the van. "You coming?" He called to Jake without looking back.

"What? No!" Jake balled up his hands into fists and flashed his eyes at the poet. "You fucking bastard!" He swung a fist at the poet, but connected with air. "You think I'm going to take this kind of shit from someone like you? Do you know who I am? What I'm capable of?" As he rounded on the poet, he stuck a hand into his jacket to pull out his gun. His arms were shaking as he cocked and aimed the weapon.

"You stupid boy," said the poet. "You have no idea what you're dealing with." With flaring eyes, the poet lunged at Jake and had him by the neck. The gun clattered to the ground and went off, the crack reverberating across the land.

Spike stopped at the sound and turned.

"Come here," the poet called to him. "Or I hurt the boy."

"Well, well, well. And here I was thinking that your IQ was into the double digits. Hello, vampire! Why does everybody keep missing that? I don't care if the boy gets it. Go on! Put the little wanker out of his sodding misery." He turned again and continued to walk away.

The smooth voice drifted after him. "If the boy dies here, then you lose your chance to see who you really came here to meet." Without letting go of the struggling Jake, the poet reached for his jacket and drew out the card he'd taken from Spike originally. He flicked it at the vampire and it landed at his feet face down. On the back was the impression of a dragon.

"All right," Spike said, "let the boy go." He retrieved the card from the sand and waved it at the poet. "But I'm about ready to heave if I hear another fucking riddle. Tell me what this means."

Slowly, the poet released Jake who folded to the ground, clutching at this throat. "You were sent here to meet the dragon, William," the poet said.


	10. Chapter 10

The poet bade them to sit around the fire, each of them marking the vertices of an equilateral triangle. Jake and Spike both grudgingly went along with it - Spike figured he had nothing to lose and Jake was probably thinking the same. So Mfozo was a decoy, a name used to detract from the real entity that, for reasons of its own, had drawn them both here.

Spike wondered if Lorne had known about this - very possibly he did. The karaoke singing demon seemed to know a lot more about the nature of things than he ever let on. Probably had something to do with being a mind reader. Not that it mattered much. Spike was determined to strangle the big queen once he got back to LA for sending him on a wild goose chase. And chip or no chip, Spike relished the thought that Lorne would not be immune to the slow steady pressure of his fingers around his throat.

Yeah, a spot of violence would go down a real treat, he thought as he looked at the other two.

He couldn't touch Jake, and it wouldn't be very sporting to beat up on a dead man, anyway. But the poet....

Spike emitted a low growl as he watched the demon pull some dried herbs from a bag. Jake's head snapped up and he stared at the vampire, but the poet was oblivious to the threat, seemingly consumed by his task.

"What are you going to do?" Jake whispered.

In response, Spike's features slid into attack mode; fangs extended, eyes adjusted to the dark and his face became a perpetual snarl. The rush of power he felt at the change was a blast. He knew that young vamps stayed in predator form because it made them feel strong, dangerous. But it was even better when you learned to control it. You would bottle it up and then at the point where you needed that extra energy, the release would be like an injection of fire.

His muscles tensed, ready to pounce. He couldn't keep still for very long in this form.

The poet looked up at him and smiled. He threw the herbs on the fire.

Spike, surprised, took in an involuntary breath of the pungent smoke. His features melted back into his human facade. "What is that?" He said as he choked on the abrasive air.

"Relaxant," the poet supplied. "Didn't want you to get all worked up. We need to descend into a meditative state - it's a trick the Khoisan people used to contact the spirit realm." His eyes slid over to Jake who was slumped over. "Looks like the boy's already there."

The poet threw more of the herbs on the fire as Spike struggled to break out of the malaise he felt creep over him. He could no longer summon the anger, or even the hunger, that would make him turn predator again as his body betrayed him by breathing in more of the foul smoke. What should have been disconcerting, was strangely not and eventually, even the reason for wanting to struggle escaped him.

Black spots crowded his vision, enveloping him in a cocoon of contentment that reminded him of something. Before he succumbed to the warm darkness, he breathed out one word in a lazy sigh, "Buffy..."

***

"...Buffy?"

"Spike, wake up," a soft voice floated down around him.

"Buffy... What?"

"Buffy's not here. It's me, open your eyes."

He did so and the hard light assaulted his senses. When his eyes adjusted, he found a sombre face looking down at him. "Tara?"

"Yes?"

Spike groaned and tried to sit up. "What happened?"

Reaching out a hand, Tara helped the vampire into an upright position. "I-- I don't know. I was sent to get you." She swallowed and blinked her luminous eyes.

Spike looked past her and directly into the glaring eye of the sun. "Tell me something," he said calmly. "Why aren't I Mr Big Pile of Dust?"

Tara followed his line of vision and shrugged. "It's a good question." She stood and pointed to the horizon. "We have to go that way, anyway."

The sun formed a bright halo around her head as Spike looked up at her. She seemed so sad. "Where are the others?" He said.

Tara began to walk towards the horizon. "I don't know, maybe they're already there."

He had no other choice but to struggle to his feet and follow her.

***

Spike continued to follow her across the sand. He seemed to have lost his shoes somewhere and his feet had become cracked and blistered from the hot surface of the desert. There weren't even any of the low bushes in this place, just sand and rock and sun.

Eventually Spike asked his guide. "Have you seen her recently? You know, Buffy."

"Yes, not too long ago," Tara replied without turning. The heat and dust had no effect on her and she looked like a cool oasis dressed in blue and green.

"How is she? Does she miss me?" He knew he shouldn't ask, but he was useless to stop the question. He needed to know.

Tara turned and smiled, although it was more a smirk. "I think she's pissed. You didn't tell her you were going."

"But, she understands, right? I mean, she knows why I had to--" Spike struggled behind the girl.

The witch's smile turned to a frown and she sighed. "I think she's in a difficult place, right now. A lot of bad things have happened."

"What? What's going on? What happened?" Anxiety spread through him like a flame. If something had happened to Buffy and he wasn't there to help her...

Tara looked at him, her eyes mirroring his worry. "I don't kn-know. I can't re-remember." Her expression showed confusion and distress and her large eyes turned watery as tears spilled over her cheeks.

"Bloody hell," Spike said softly. He moved forward to place a comforting hand on Tara's shoulder. "What are we doing here, kitten?"

"I wish I knew," Tara sniffed. "But we must hurry, you don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" Spike was confused, but something started to come back to him. "I have an appointment, don't I?"

Tara nodded and wiped the tears off her face.

"The poet sent me here... Where's here?"

Tara didn't answer, but he could see it in her eyes and the sadness in their depths.

"Oh, bloody hell," he repeated as he cupped Tara's soft cheek with his fingers. "This is the spirit realm he spoke of. And you're... dead."

Tara looked away from Spike at her surroundings. "I guess I must be, if I'm here."

"What happened? Who did this to you? I swear I will rip their throats and drain them before they can even form the words to beg for mercy..." Spike tried to reach for his anger but instead found only sadness and despair. "I'm sorry, Tara. It shouldn't have ended like this for you."

She smiled again and the sun came out from behind the clouds. "She's here, Spike. You should go to her." Taking his hand from her cheek, she placed a kiss on the knuckles then let it fall to his side. "Don't keep her waiting."

Spike nodded and turned to face the woman who was standing a few paces away.

"Tell Willow I love her..." Tara said quietly behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hello, William."

"Hello, Cecily," Spike greeted the woman with the pale face and dark hair. After a moment's scrutiny he said, "You're not really Cecily, are you? I want to see your true face."

"Very well," the woman who looked like Cecily said. Her image distorted and vibrated until it was replaced by that of a small, dark-skinned woman. Her eyes were large and black and her face was covered in white clay while her hair hung in dreadlocks down her bare back. Spike could see the muscles that rippled along her arms and bare legs. She stood straight as an arrow, her feet planted firmly apart in the sand and her hands in tensed fists at her side. At any moment she might leap into a fighting stance.

Spike cocked his head. "I know you."

The woman remained silent but he could feel the waves of loathing that came from her.

"What do you want from me?" He said harshly.

"Nothing," the woman growled. The world tilted and the sandy dreamscape reverted into the dry Karoo terrain where Spike could see three bodies slumped around a dead fire and a totem pole. The sun was still shining but the light was no longer impossibly bright.

It gave him the chills to look at himself lying in the sun, unnatural and white - a dead thing.

The woman was behind him now, whispering into his neck. "I wanted to give you something."

Spike spun around to face her and grabbed her shoulders. "What?"

"What you want. Your heart's desire. But you must defeat me, first." With that she snarled and twisted out of his grip. Her leg lashed out so fast that he was on the ground before he could comprehend her words.

In an instant she was on him, her clawed hands stretching towards his throat.

Spike reacted with fine-honed reflexes and rolled away. He leaped back to his feet and began to stalk the woman as she was stalking him.

The circled each other, hands out and backs low. He realised she didn't have a weapon, but then, neither did he - he still couldn't produce his fangs. The were evenly matched.

"Why must I defeat you?" Spike breathed as he lunged at her.

She dodged and kicked. "It is the only way I will agree to do what you want."

He ducked and punched, hand connecting flesh. She staggered back but recovered quickly.

"What if I just walk away," he said. "What happens if I refuse to play the game?"

"Then I will kill you." She emphasised her words by kicking him in the stomach and bounding out of reach. She was fast, but so was he.

Spike roared and tackled her, sending them both to the ground. He pinned her there with his body. "How can I kill what's already dead?"

Her face blurred again and melted into a different shape. Large grey-green eyes looked up at him. "I do it all the time," she said.

"Buffy?" He whispered, incredulous, but she pushed him back and sent him flying into the rocks. Buffy was gone when he looked up, the other woman back in her place. "You tricked me," he gasped as he his hand went up to his head, feeling the blood that seeped through his matted hair.

"I don't want you to win," the other snarled.

"Then let me go," Spike said. "I'll leave, I won't come back - I won't disturb her again."

"Not good enough!" She planted a solid foot in his face and Spike felt his jaw crack.

"What do you want?" His words came out garbled through broken teeth.

She kicked him again. "I want you to die."

"Then bloody well do it and get it over with."

The Slayer dropped to her knees in front of the bleeding man. "It is done," she whispered.

***

He woke and cool water was being poured over his head. Someone was attended to his wounds.

"Buffy?"

"Shh," she said, "No, I'm not Buffy - that is just the image you are projecting. You know my true face."

"Who are you?"

"I have many names. I am The Rain Queen, The Protector, Mujaji, The Dragon - but these are not the names you know me by. I was born to serve my people, to shield them from the enemy. I am The Slayer."

"Slayer," Spike whispered through cracked lips in awe. She continued to bath his forehead and wash his head wound. "I don't understand. Am I..." He struggled to sit up not knowing why the world was in soft focus or why he found himself in paradise.

"You must rest - you have a long journey ahead of you." Her tones were soothing and Spike laid his head back on her lap. He wouldn't leave her for the world.

"Buffy, I love you," he said simply.

"I know," the Slayer whispered. "It has been proved."

"Spike! Spike, get up, man!" Another voice intruded on his dream.

Spike looked out across the oasis and saw a figure bending over an inert body by the dead campfire. For some reason, it was still dark but the first glimmerings of dawn were spreading fingertips over the horizon. Jake was frantically trying to shake life into his undead body.

Spike looked back up at the Slayer, the image of his true love, who was watching the scene with a faint line on her brow. "Am I dead? Really dead? Have I been set free?"

Her fingers traced a pattern around his jaw. "I killed you. And in doing so, I died. You have defeated me, beloved, and now you are free to leave and to demand from me your price - as it was always intended."

"I don't understand," the words caught in his throat.

Jake's voice drifted to him from the scene on the desert floor, "Come on, Spike, wake up! The sun's about to come up and you're going to be toast, man!"

She smiled and he saw seven levels of heaven in her eyes. He could stay here forever. "You have surprised us all. How is it that a demon can walk away from his very own nature? You are truly free, my William, and choice has been given to you for the first time since you were condemned. Tell me your price? What is it you truly want?"

"Buffy..." He knew the woman cradling his head wasn't her.

The Slayer looked at him with regret. "She needs you. She has been abandoned by all her loved ones and she doesn't know if she can survive on her own. We both know she has the strength - but she needs someone to show her. And she needs someone to watch over her - since I am no longer able..."

Jake had grabbed hold of the lapels of Spike's jacket and was trying in vain to pull his body away from the totem pole. His brow was drenched in sweat and his shoulders were twitching with the effort. Spike looked on with growing interest.

"Why is he trying to save me?"

The Slayer shook her head. "I don't know. But his strength is fading. He is a lot further gone than you thought. Perhaps he will join us soon."

"No," Spike said and shifted out of her lap. "I mean no. You asked me what I wanted. This is it - that we both get out of this alive. Me and Jake."

Her lips twitched in a smile. "You will never cease to surprise me, beloved. Very well, it is done." She leaned forward and placed her exquisite lips on his.

The world twisted in a brilliant flash and once more, pain and heat and the smell of blood descended onto Spike. He choked and opened his eyes to reality and the rapidly brightening sky.


	12. Chapter 12

"Bugger," Spike croaked out as the sun began to rise.

"Spike! You're awake!" Jake was hovering somewhere around him. "Get up, get up! You must run."

"It's too late," he breathed and then coughed. He felt a strange constriction in his chest. Spike struggled to sit up and Jake knelt down beside him. The other man's eyes were wide with fear. "Do me a favour, mate," Spike said and felt pain rip through him at the effort.

"Anything," Jake said. "Look, I'm sorry, bro..."

Spike shook his head and winced at the pounding in his ears - a strange and painful thump-thump. "Don't matter. You need to go to LA. Find--" He coughed again and wondered if his dream injuries had been made reality. "Find Lorne. Get to Buffy. She needs help."

"Lorne. Buffy. Got it. I'll do what I can, my friend." There was a promise written on Jake's face, but Spike knew that there wasn't much the other man could do to help Buffy. She would truly be on her own this time. And he would never see her again.

He leaned over onto Jake's shoulder while he waited for the first rays of light to touch him and turn him into dust. With a hesitant hand, Jake patted him on the shoulder.

The sun was taking an awfully long time to do its job.

"Ah... Spike?"

"Yes?" was his muffled reply from Jake's shoulder.

"Since you're not on fire, bro, you should probably turn around and watch the sunrise."

Cautiously, Spike raised his head and looked to the east. The day was pristine and clear without clouds to mar the blue sky and the yellow orb of the sun had already slipped surreptitiously over the horizon. It didn't glare at him or make him feel the weight of every year of his damnation; it was simply another star which lit up the day.

"Oh god," Spike said and even though it was poncey, he couldn't stop himself from crying a little. "She took me literally."

Jake was awe-struck at the sight of the pale vampire in the full morning sunlight. "What do you mean? What is this, bro?"

The vampire realised finally what the pain in his chest and the pounding in his head were. For the first time in 120 years, his heart and lungs were functioning again. "I'm bloody alive," Spike said.

***  
Spike tried to explain his dream or vision quest or whatever you wanted to call to Jake, still not quite sure if he understood it himself. All he knew was that the woman who had called herself 'The Slayer' had made him alive again and he was pretty certain that Jake would discover that he was healthy, too.

The two of them, laughing, crying and stumbling had picked their way back to the road to find the taxi still there.

"Somebody really loves us," Jake said with a grin. "I thought the poet would have stranded us here. He was gone when I woke up this morning."

"I guess he's hitched a ride back to his hell dimension," Spike said sourly.

"Yeah, Jo'burg!" Jake quipped then laughed at his own joke. "Damn. It feels good to laugh again. I haven't felt this good since..." He sobered up a bit at the memory. "Well, you know." He turned to Spike who was staring at his hand. "How're you feeling?"

"Actually, for someone who's just been resurrected after 120 years, not too bad. It hurts like a bitch to breathe, though. But it's funny 'cause I don't feel any different."

Jake raised an eyebrow as he opened the side door to the van. "You don't?"

"Well, apart from the lack of disintegration in the sunlight and the nausea and light-headedness... Yeah." Spike grinned. He flexed his arm muscles and then ran a hand through his hair. "Looks like everything's still working otherwise. Some things better than they used to." He tapped his chest.

"If you say so, man." Jake hopped up into the drivers seat and fished around for a bottle of water. He took large gulps of the lukewarm liquid, then wiped his dribbling mouth. "Man! I was parched. You want some?" He handed the bottle to Spike.

Spike looked at the bottle as if it was about to bite him. The rasping at the back of his throat and the dryness of his tongue told him that he needed something, but he wasn't sure if this was it.

Jake pressed the bottle into his hand. "Take it, man. We don't want you to dehydrate and today's going to be a stinker by the look of it. It'll take us a while to get back to the city."

It was starting to sink in. He had a pulse and lungs that needed air. His skin itched, his stomach rumbled and his head hurt and he was alive. "Bloody hell," Spike said to himself. He growled as he ripped the lid off the bottle with his teeth and poured the contents down his throat as if it was blood, but it wasn't - it was water; life-giving and politically-correct water. And he didn't have to slaughter anyone to get it. The stream soothed his dry throat and eased his headache and Spike came back from the drink laughing.

Jake, however, was looking at him with horror. "I thought--" He stumbled over his words. "I thought she made you human."

"Huh?" Spike said after another long swig from the bottle.

"Look, man," Jake said. "Look at yourself in the mirror."

Spike frowned but turned his attention to the van's side mirror and bent to look into it. Two eyes stared back at him - his own reflection as real as the day - but the eyes were yellow and the teeth as his image smiled were pointed. There was a predator in the mirror and Spike could feel the rush of power and the tingling nerves that always came with the change of face, but, along side it was the thrice fast beat of his heart and the reflex rise and fall of his chest.

He took in a deep breath and relaxed. The predator stood down and was replaced by the hard blue eyes and leering grin of William the Bloody. Fucking hell, he thought, I'm alive and I'm a vampire - I'll bet the bleeding council never saw this coming...

He gave Jake his widest, most malicious grin and climbed into the passenger seat of the taxi. "Let's get back to civilisation, mate, I'm ready to rock!"

Jake sighed, then grinned ruefully. The boy seemed to accept that life was down right weird but that they had places to go so he fished around for the keys and started up the engine. He flicked the radio on as he headed back out onto the highway, and strains of soulful music began to play. "This one's and oldie but a goodie," he said as he turned it up.

The band on the radio crooned their heartfelt lyrics into the cabin while the two men looked eagerly on towards the horizon.

"I knew a man who lived in fear  
it was huge it was angry  
it was drawing near  
Behind his house a secret place  
was the shadow of the demon  
he could never face.

He built a wall of steel and flame  
and men with guns to keep it tame  
Then standing back he made it plain  
that the nightmare would never ever rise again  
But the fear and the fire and the guns remain.

It doesn't matter now it's over anyhow  
He tells the world that it's sleeping  
But as the night came round I heard  
its lonely sound  
it wasn't roaring it was weeping..." *

 

THE END


End file.
